


The Morning After a Good Knight

by sanerontheinside



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Battle Couple, Crack Treated Seriously, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, Mission Fic, ageswap au, and a random side character named Greg, but in sw, gratuitous references to the King, he's not dead he just went home, idiots to lovers, oblique references to monsters inc, you'll know which one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: “I don’t suppose you can tell mewhyI’m bailing you out of a Corellian drunk tank?”That clipped Coruscanti diction was likely meant for only him. Qui-Gon glanced up—and nearly let his jaw drop like a first-year Padawan. He’d been away from Coruscant too long.“Technically,” he said, rallying in less than a breath, “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 13
Kudos: 108





	The Morning After a Good Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Crack. Treated. Seriously. _Very_ seriously. So, so, _so_ seriously. Do not attempt to rationalise. 
> 
> Disclaimer: The entire first chapter was written on an intense giggle-high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember this one time I said "I will no longer post wips." Since then, I have started 2 new prompts that are posted in wip form and just chillin like that in stasis. I also have a few completed chapters of this and that sitting in my drive. I haven't posted in a while, the public school system is a soul-sucking experience even at its best, and hey, I don't know if anyone's noticed but we've kind of been hanging out in a very shit reality lately. 
> 
> So, you know, here's a treat for us all. Enjoy ^^

“I don’t suppose you can tell me  _ why _ I’m bailing you out of a Corellian drunk tank?” 

That clipped Coruscanti diction was likely meant for only him. Qui-Gon glanced up—and nearly let his jaw drop like a first-year Padawan. He’d been away from Coruscant too long. 

“Technically,” he said, rallying in less than a breath, “I haven’t done anything wrong.” 

The Jedi was giving him a look that managed to be both disapproving and considering, all at once. 

Qui-Gon had been aware, in theory, that his Master had stepped down from his Council seat. He’d also been aware, in a general sort of sense, that Master Dooku’s place had gone to Master Kenobi—the  _ Negotiator. _ The man’s reputation preceded him. Qui-Gon had actually written an analysis of several of Master Kenobi’s earlier solo missions for his senior thesis. But somehow Qui-Gon had never actually seen a holo that could do the man justice. 

Kenobi looked young—or younger than the average Council member—but had an air of solemnity about him befitting Dooku himself. A scion of some old and most noble house, perhaps; it was easy to see why Dooku might have named him for his successor. But, for Qui-Gon, the similarities between the two men ended there: there was something exasperated in Kenobi’s expression now, yet neither cold, nor coldly disapproving as Dooku might have been. 

Kenobi was also much easier on the eyes, which Qui-Gon definitely wasn’t thinking about. Copper-haired, with a neatly trimmed beard and glittering green eyes, his eyebrows in a perfect arch. The Master was wrapped in layers of soft Jedi robe and tunics like it was armour—the tips of his fingers were barely visible. Absurdly, Qui-Gon found himself wondering what those hands would look like, unwrapped. 

The only question was, why was a Councilor here to get him out of hock?

Kenobi narrowed his eyes at him and motioned for the guard to unlock the gate. 

Qui-Gon hadn’t lied, in fact. His only trouble at the moment was that he hadn’t been able to post bail. He was the respectable sort of penniless, or undercover-Jedi-broke: playing a character who couldn’t possibly have that much money to spend in one place. He was pretty sure it was obvious that a man of his (social) stature, dressed in (well-worn, if still respectable) spacer’s togs would never be able to afford to post bail for himself after getting swept up in a cantina brawl. 

The brawl itself was, ostensibly, the result of over-exuberance brought on by the excitement of seeing his hoverball team win. For the first time in fifty years, too: never let it be said that Jinn didn’t truly invest himself in his role. 

Kenobi watched him as Qui-Gon pushed himself up out of his lazy sprawl and brushed himself off. Qui-Gon stepped out of his cell—with a polite nod to the duty officer who had taken him in last night, who  _ definitely _ didn’t get paid enough to deal with a boisterous drunk spacer of Qui-Gon’s (physical) stature—and turned to follow the Councilor, who barely waited long enough before setting off briskly down the ill-lit hall. Qui-Gon didn’t exactly have to rush to keep up, largely because he had the advantage in length of stride. 

“Not to seem terribly rude, but—to what do I owe the honour of an in-person Council call?”  _ And fully paid bail, which wasn’t an amount to sneeze at, _ Qui-Gon thought. 

_ And how the hells did he find me? _ He’d definitely been booked as ‘Kai-Jin’, which was one of Dex’s ‘contacts’—thus, not a Council-sanctioned alias. 

“We were doing house-calls, and you weren’t at home,” Kenobi deadpanned, pushing through the precinct doors and into the cool evening air. “You and I will be partnered for your next assignment. We have a sixteen hour layover before we take a cargo ship to Edvary Run. It’s the only transport they won’t shoot at. I trust you can keep yourself out of trouble for that amount of time?” 

Qui-Gon thought about the fact that he’d just been bailed out by a Jedi, and someone would probably notice him walking around with one in the streets. He thought about his undercover assignment, an improvised solution to an unexpected problem; the fact that his assignment was now complete certainly didn’t mean it was safe to reveal his true identity. 

He thought about the ten or twelve mercenaries he’d managed to incapacitate less than an hour ago, who were still probably snoring away in the drunk tank in the cell furthest from him, and all the charges Corellian Security would be happy to put to their names. 

“Easily,” he said, slipping his arm into the Councilor’s. “Let’s eat, I’m starving.”

Kenobi shot him a baffled look. “What, you want me to come with you?” 

“How can I get into trouble with you here to keep an eye on me?” Qui-Gon smiled, all teeth, and steered the Jedi into the nearest quiet, narrow alley. 

Kenobi, surprisingly, didn’t make much of a fuss. 

They didn’t have to go very far before Qui-Gon spotted a tiny hole-in-the-wall café with a perfect arrangement for what he had in mind: there was a seat in the corner barely visible from the outside, with a perfect view of the street through the front window. There was only one occupant, a large Arionid behind the bar in the back. 

It was a cozy little place, dimly lit and not very crowded, most likely family-owned. The menu, though, seemed deliberately vague, promising things like ‘house salad’ or ‘spicy noodles’, but not being particularly clear on the contents of any dish. 

“Have you ever eaten here?” the Councilor asked, eyeing it with faint suspicion. 

Qui-Gon glanced up. “No, have you?” 

Kenobi sent a tiny glare around one corner of the menu card. “You could spend a year walking this city and not see all of it. No, I’ve never been here before, and thus have no idea what to expect.” 

“Then it’ll be a surprise for both of us.” Qui-Gon shrugged lightly. “Best hope it’s a good one.”

The server appeared at his elbow at precisely that moment, with a pitcher of iced water and two glasses in hand. Qui-Gon caught sight of the name-tag pinned to the uniform, which informed him that her name was Roz. She filled the glasses, then plunked the pitcher down on the table and took out a tiny notepad that disappeared into the palm of her hand. 

She seemed annoyed, which could have been either her resting-state expression, or else she’d overheard him and taken his words to heart. Maybe she just disapproved of down-on-their-luck spacers and Jedi Masters—that, or the combination in particular. Qui-Gon had to admit, they probably did look like trouble. 

Qui-Gon ordered the dinner special and a cup of caff with a minimum of fuss. 

“Spicy noodles, please,” Kenobi said, “and caff, as well.” 

Roz bent an unimpressed glare at him. “Spicy for a Human?” 

“Just… as spicy as you can make it.” 

Roz just shrugged. “Hey, s’your pyre,” she tossed back over her shoulder as she headed off to the kitchen. 

Kenobi stifled a tiny snort. “You’ve chosen a quality establishment for us, I see,” he quipped. 

“Obviously, only the finest for a member of the Council,” Qui-Gon agreed. Then he heard something that sounded suspiciously like a growling stomach. “When did you last eat? Something that was  _ not _ a ration bar,” he added quickly. 

The Councilor frowned. “Not since Duro.” 

“Not for fourteen hours, then, at least.” Qui-Gon was not giving a Jedi Master, a  _ Councilor, _ a pointed glare—not exactly. He was, however, insistent. “You’re choosing desserts, when she comes back.” 

“Only if I survive the noodles,” Kenobi said. “I have a feeling I’m going to get burned.” 

Qui-Gon eyed him over the rim of his glass. “That was a  _ terrible _ pun,” he said. 

“Low-hanging fruit,” Kenobi agreed. “Couldn’t miss it.”

Qui-Gon smiled slightly, and took a sip. “You’ve been to Corellia before?”

“Aside from the Temple, you mean? A few times. There was that matter of a handful of corrupt CorSec officials that Master Halcyon requested backup for—oh, it must be four or five years now.” 

“Any highlights?” 

Kenobi grinned. “Definitely the brandy. And the sabacc tables.” 

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really. Highlights of the classic Corellian vacation,” Kenobi said wryly. “I’m still missing something, aren’t I?”

“Swoop racing?” Qui-Gon offered. 

“Haven’t had the chance, yet. You should take me,” he added, and Qui-Gon fought down a completely inappropriate thought. 

He cleared his throat. “Gladly, though on one condition.” 

Kenobi tilted his head, wordlessly questioning. 

“I hope you have something a little less… formal to wear,” Qui-Gon hedged. “I’ve made a bit of noise here, as you may have guessed. Being seen in the company of a Jedi—well, it might be a problem.” 

“Ah.” Kenobi almost seemed relieved. “That’s easily fixed. You might have asked me earlier, rather than dragging me into this place, you know.” 

“Oh, come on, give it a chance. I’m sure the food’s not that bad,” Qui-Gon drawled. “Or the company.” 

“That’s not—” 

At that moment the kitchen doors swung open, however, and their waitress reappeared with generously laden plates in hand. Kenobi cut himself off. If Qui-Gon didn’t know better, he might have guessed that the man was blushing, but that was surely impossible. 

Their server set down the plates, with maybe a little more force than necessary, and left them to it. 

Kenobi clicked his grubsticks together, face lighting up with anticipation. 

“That is burning my face from all the way across the table.”

“It’s perfect,” Kenobi told him around a mouthful, eyes already tearing up. 

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow, and simply refilled Kenobi’s glass. 

His dinner special was delicious. Dooku would have turned his nose up at a place like this, but Qui-Gon seemed to have an uncanny knack for finding tiny eateries that were family-run with a great deal of passion and pride. It was a relief, though, to be able to sit down to such a meal and share it with someone without an ounce of complaint—nothing along the lines of ‘couldn’t you have found some place cleaner, Padawan’. Kenobi seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. 

It gave Qui-Gon some time to recover his equilibrium, and start feeling a bit less like he’d spent the night in the drunk tank. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he was embarrassed to have met the new Councilor there, but it wasn’t precisely his finest moment, either. 

“Transport to Edvary Run, you said.” Qui-Gon glanced up. “I hope the ceasefire didn’t fall apart?” 

“No, not at all.” Kenobi deftly twisted noodles around his grubsticks. “They’ve finally agreed to more permanent peace negotiations, though.”

“A Councilor sent out to broker a peace agreement on Edvary Run.” Qui-Gon grimaced. “Sounds like a picnic.” 

“Name-requested, actually.” 

“After your work securing the ceasefire,” he filled in. He remembered seeing that mission summary, though most of the report didn’t make very interesting reading. ‘Bloody mess’ was what he got out of the thirty page narrative, and bloody mess was likely what it was. “Not that that is necessarily a point in your favour; I imagine you’ve made a few enemies there already.”

Kenobi gave him an odd look, assessing and quite possibly amused. “You’ve been keeping a close eye on my record.” 

Qui-Gon laughed. “Any student of diplomacy follows the work of the Negotiator.” He noticed the Councilor’s keen expression twisted into something sour at the nickname, and added, “Dooku always said you were one to watch.” 

“A high compliment, from him.” 

“Rather higher than afforded to his pupils,” Qui-Gon remarked quietly, mostly between himself and his caff. He hadn’t heard from Komari recently, and it worried him. 

Kenobi graciously ignored the comment. “Well, they do say one can be judged by the quality of their enemies.” He sipped at his own cup of caff, but almost instantly put it down with a little moue of distaste, and doctored it with a generous dollop of cream. “Given past experiences with Edvary Run, I was encouraged to select a working partner.” 

“And you chose to work with me?” 

“Let us say that your critiques made a singular impression,” Kenobi said, dry as dust. 

“Oh, good, you’ve read my senior thesis.” Qui-Gon sighed. “I suppose there could be a more embarrassing way to meet.” 

The Master snorted into his cup. “Please. You should read my analysis of your Master’s missions.” 

“Ah, now I see why he likes you.”

“Naturally,” Kenobi agreed. 

He had the most brilliant smile Qui-Gon had ever seen, warm and sparkling like blue sea-water, and every single train of thought Qui-Gon ever had collided and slipped the rails at once. 

“Anything for dessert?”

Reality intruded on the moment, in the form of Roz’s gravelled voice and looming presence, and effectively saved Qui-Gon from an embarrassed silence. Instead he waved a hand between Kenobi and the menu card, and the Councilor let out a put-upon sigh. 

“If you insist,” he said, consonants crisp as crystal. 

Master Kenobi ordered a linberry tart, and complimented the noodles profusely. Roz seemed mollified by that. Qui-Gon, for his part, chose muja mousse for himself, and thanked her. The Arionid was now definitely pleased, and Qui-Gon wondered if he’d chosen one of her specials. 

Roz’s appearance had given Qui-Gon enough time to recover his equilibrium. By the time she’d retreated to the counter again, he’d found a safe subject for conversation. 

“So, how is Master Dooku?” he asked. “I haven’t heard from him in some time.” 

“Last I heard, he took it upon himself to ease current tensions between the Houses of Serenno.” 

“Ah,” Qui-Gon uttered. “Well, that could take years.”

Kenobi shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “He is the head of the most influential House. His brother ceded control of the estate to him. Given the situation on Serenno and the Dooku family’s involvement in the politics and finances of that system in particular, the Council thought it best to assign Master Dooku there, at least in a temporary post.” 

Qui-Gon blinked. “I didn’t know he had a brother. Serenno is one of the Order’s strongest supporters, is it not?” 

“They make a generous annual contribution, yes,” the Councilor agreed demurely. 

“He’ll hate it there. He’ll be bored within three months,” Qui-Gon said bluntly. 

Kenobi glanced up at him, brow furrowed. 

_ And you know this, _ Qui-Gon thought. He was sure of it, even if he couldn’t have said how. “Dooku has always felt that his place was on the Rim—where he could do the most good, have the most impact.” 

“Someone needs to stay and negotiate with the Senate,” Master Kenobi said, his voice carefully toneless. 

Some senior member of the Council must have been particularly insistent; gods knew it might’ve been Dooku himself. 

“I think,” Qui-Gon said, choosing his words with precision, “perhaps the Council might consider sending someone to Serenno to remind him that things are not as hopeless as they seem.”

Kenobi was watching him carefully now. “Noted,” he said. “May I ask—why the concern?”

“Have you heard from Komari Vosa?” 

“No.” His eyes widened. “Oh. I see. Crisis of faith, then.” 

“Something like that.” 

In short time, there was little left of their dessert. They had finished their meal in companionable silence, and Roz left the check in a surprisingly subtle pass. The Jedi Master reached for it, but Qui-Gon picked it up first. 

“My treat,” he insisted. “Please, allow me to pay back at least part of my bail.” 

Councilor Kenobi raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s going to take quite a few more dinners than this one, Knight Jinn.”

“I look forward to it.” 

The eyebrow rose just a touch higher, but Kenobi didn’t say anything else. 

* * *

Qui-Gon might have looked like a down-on-his-luck spacer, but he had the credits to pay Roz and tip generously. The Arionid seemed surprised at the gratuity, and whatever remained of her icy manner crumbled away to goodwill. No one needed to know quite how a lowly spacer had ended up with a very handsome sum at his disposal. 

Given his looks, Qui-Gon was certain most assumed he was a bounty hunter. He didn’t mind—fewer people bothered him for it. But his sabacc winnings had been just as honestly earned, and carefully calculated so as not to get him thrown out on suspicion of counting cards. 

“Where is your pack?” Qui-Gon asked the Master. 

“Left it with the concierge,” Kenobi said. “Wasn’t fond of searching three precincts for my mission partner while hauling my kit around with me. Where’s yours?” 

Qui-Gon thought about it. “Bottom of the Auric, probably.” 

Master Kenobi glared at him. 

“I got shot at,” Qui-Gon said, in protest. “I fell off a bridge, you know.” 

Kenobi tried to cover up his snort with a coughing fit, but was largely unsuccessful. 

The  _ Hotel Flamingo _ didn’t have a health inspector’s warning posted on the door, which was a highlight. But this was the backside of Tyrena City: the hotel was old, and the decor had been at the peak of fashion some twenty years ago. Maybe forty, now Qui-Gon thought about it. There’d been a bit of a retro fever in between. The space was small and cramped, but not horribly so. Master Kenobi had booked one of the best suites available, anyway—a corner room, no less. 

Qui-Gon had no intention of letting the Master spend what remained of his sixteen hours on Corellia on his feet, and herded the man up the stairs, into the suite, and finally, into the shower. 

Taking a swim in the Auric River hadn’t exactly been the high point of Qui-Gon’s mission. Losing his kit was an inconvenience, though hardly one he was unaccustomed to. He wasn’t careless, just unlucky. Frequently. Even Dooku hadn’t been particularly critical of his Padawan’s repeated mishaps. 

On the upside, Qui-Gon was well-versed in acquiring the necessities, or even improvising in a pinch. He had what he needed: his lightsaber sat comfortably snug in one boot, a blade in the other, and a blaster rode discreetly on his hip. 

While Kenobi was in the shower, Qui-Gon ventured back down to the main floor to make subtle inquiries about where to find a few things he absolutely did not want to be caught without. Particularly not if their destination was Edvary Run: at the very least, he wanted a decent med kit. Another blaster for Kenobi wouldn’t go amiss. 

The concierge—named Greg—was most enlightening. Qui-Gon had caught the edge of a tattoo creeping under the man’s sleeve, and if he hadn’t been among similar tattoos for the last month he might not have noticed. Thank the Force, it wasn’t one of the marks Qui-Gon would have to avoid in the near future, but he had a feeling Greg knew exactly who he was dealing with. 

Still, if he recognised that Qui-Gon was a Jedi, he gave no sign of it. Qui-Gon heard what he needed to know, thanked him, and for once the phrase “a pleasure doing business with you” didn’t sit like a stone in his mouth. 

Though, oddly—and yet somehow utterly unsurprisingly—if Qui-Gon was looking for a back-channel sale of a reliable blaster, Greg insisted that the best person to see was none other than Roz the Arionid. 

They bonded over a mutual appreciation of her desserts, at least. 

He came back up just in time to see Kenobi furiously scrubbing at his dripping hair with a towel. The man was dressed in a loose tunic, pale blue and worn soft, and a pair of sleep leggings. Qui-Gon noted a few stray water droplets scattered across his shoulders like constellations, and watched a couple more shake loose. 

“Everything all right?” Kenobi asked. 

“Oh, fine. I ventured downstairs and made friends with the locals.” At the Councilor’s concerned look he further clarified: “Just trying to discreetly piece my kit back together.”

Kenobi frowned. “You could have requisitioned supplies from the Temple.” 

“Did you need anything?” 

“No, but—”

“I have the credits,” Qui-Gon assured him. “I’d rather not give yet another Quartermaster a reason to have my hide,” he added, with a crooked smile. 

Kenobi looked vaguely dubious—or perhaps mildly disapproving, Qui-Gon wasn’t sure. But he didn’t press Qui-Gon any further on the matter. 

“You look about dead on your feet,” Qui-Gon said gently. “Go on ahead and sleep.”

The Councilor’s mutinous look cracked apart around a traitorous yawn, and Qui-Gon did his utmost not to smile wider still. 

“Oh, all right,” Kenobi grumbled, and pitched forward slightly. 

“I’ll take the couch,” Qui-Gon said in a rush. 

“I—” Kenobi stopped, and frowned at him, blinking furiously. Apparently the will to keep up an appearance of alertness had broken with that yawn. “Def’nitely trying to win points with a Councilor,” Kenobi accused—though the words had no bite to them at all. 

“My goodness, is that all it would take?” Qui-Gon grinned, back on sure footing. “They really ought to take better care of you.” 

“Mm-m,” Kenobi nodded and waved absently as he turned around and half-stumbled off in the direction of the bed, “as if any of them could compete with the dashing and gallant Knight Jinn.”

The Knight laughed, warmed through by the teasing. Even in jest, it was a nice sort of compliment, after all. 

“Sleep well,” he said to the Jedi Master’s retreating back, waited long enough to hear the muffled  _ whuff _ of a body hitting the mattress, and took to the shower to wash off his brief stay in the drunk tank. 

He didn’t take long. The moment he got his head under the spray of warm water, his exhaustion hit him like a sack of particularly vengeful bricks. Within minutes, Qui-Gon felt himself listing to the side, and decided that he wasn't over-eager for a closer acquaintance with the tiled floor. After a perfunctory rinse, he clambered out and dried off. 

At least in terms of bath towels, this hotel had gotten something right. They were large and soft and luxurious, and Qui-Gon almost seriously considered stealing one. But the far more pressing matter on his mind involved sleep and a couch, so he abandoned that train of thought for the time being and poured himself into the bathrobe provided. This, too, was marvellously soft. It didn’t precisely encourage him to cross the suite, which suddenly seemed a bit too big; rather, Qui-Gon was willing to accept the wall as a sleeping surface. It was much nearer, as it were, to hand. Unfortunately it was also vertical, which wouldn’t do. 

So Qui-Gon forced himself to meander through the main room, proud when he’d managed to do so without staggering—even if he deviated wildly from a straight line. He realised that he hadn’t grabbed a sheet or pillow just as he reached the couch, and hovered over it for a split second, uncertain. His knees didn’t give out, but all at once it seemed far too much to go barging into the bedroom and rifling through the chest-of-drawers for a spare set of bed linen. Qui-Gon gave up and let himself collapse. 

There was a loud crack of splintering wood. 

It took Qui-Gon a moment to figure out what had happened. He blinked at the ceiling. His knees were a bit higher than he’d expected. 

“You broke the couch? How did you break the couch?” 

Qui-Gon glanced over at an equally sleep-bleary Master Kenobi hovering in the bedroom door. 

“I was having this lengthy internal debate, trying to date the furnishings in this suite,” Qui-Gon said, his words deliberately formed, so as not to accidentally slur them together. “I remember the style was in its heyday some sixty years ago, but then twenty years later there was a bit of a retro movement. I think I know the answer, now.”

“Oh?” Kenobi grinned. “And what conclusion did you arrive at?”

“I can’t say I know for certain, but I believe this couch might be older than I am.” 

That surprised a laugh out of the Master. “Well, you’re not sleeping there. Come on,” he waved Qui-Gon over. 

Qui-Gon just stared at him. “What?” 

“I said you’re not sleeping on a broken couch,” Kenobi insisted, still laughing. “You could get splinters. Come on, the bed’s big enough for two.” 

Qui-Gon blinked. “Ah…” 

He rose—with some difficulty. Splinters or no, sleeping on the couch in its current arrangement would certainly give the hardiest of Jedi Knights a Sith of a backache. 

“I could just take the cushions—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Master Kenobi’s dismissive gesture brooked no argument. “Tyrena gets cold this time of year. If you’ll wake up with a stiff back sleeping on that mangled mess, just imagine—” the Master yawned again “—wha’ you’ll get, all but sleeping on the cold floor.”

Qui-Gon trailed after Kenobi as he vanished back into the room. “Are we sure the bed’s safe?” 

“Reasonably,” Kenobi replied, amused lilt still there. “It looks relatively new.” 

It did, actually, upon closer inspection. Newer, and sturdier, and with enough space for two sentients. 

“And I fell face first into it a few minutes ago, it was fine,” Kenobi added. He turned and looked Qui-Gon up and down in a way that made him feel a sudden rush of warmth. “You’re very tall,” the Councilor said, “I think maybe you shouldn’t do that.” 

Qui-Gon huffed a startled laugh. “I won’t,” he assured the Master. 

Kenobi waved him forward with a flourish, as if he didn’t trust Qui-Gon not to crash down into the bed the moment his back was turned. 

Half the bed was undisturbed—Qui-Gon figured that was to be his side. He stepped forward, through a sudden bout of uncertainty; he had no idea what he should be doing under that wry-amused, slow gaze, sleepy as a sunbathed feline’s. It felt like an intrusion, almost, for all that he’d been practically handed the proverbial engraved invitation. Just sleep, and nothing more than an ordinary kindness between mission partners. Somehow it felt more personal, though, as if this was a side of  _ Councilor _ Kenobi that no one else should see. 

Qui-Gon perched gingerly on the side of the bed, and heard the Jedi Master’s quiet snort behind him. 

“It’ll hold,” Qui-Gon said, droll, and definitely not thinking about how endearing that little sound was. 

“Oh, good,” said Kenobi, no longer across the room but almost right behind him. 

Qui-Gon felt the muscles of his back pull tense, and covered it with a shiver. Come to think of it, he  _ was _ cold. It didn’t take much thought for him to curl up on his side, burrowing into the covers. He heard the soft settling of fabric behind him that was Master Kenobi doing the same. 

The lights in the main room flicked off, somehow, and Qui-Gon found himself smiling a little, remembering Dooku’s chiding about ‘inappropriate use of the Force’. The fact that Dooku had named the man his successor meant that Kenobi had earned his respect, but there were different (though all equally difficult) ways to rouse such feelings in Yan Dooku; privately, Qui-Gon hoped Master Kenobi had driven him mad. He wasn’t sure why the idea pleased him so much. 

For long moments, there was stillness in the room, nothing but their even breathing. Then, softly, out of the dark, “Are you cold?” 

Qui-Gon didn’t know how to answer that. He was, in fact, completely and utterly unprepared for the question as he was for the voice that asked it. Intimate, almost. 

Kenobi shifted, until they were pressed back to back. Despite the fact that such a move should have put Qui-Gon on high alert, paradoxically, his back unknotted and the tension melted away as if it had never been. 

“Thank you,” he said, voice already thick with exhaustion. 

Kenobi acknowledged that with a quiet hum, and a deep, pleased sigh. Qui-Gon’s limbs were already leaden-heavy, but with that sound something warm unspooled in his chest, like heat unraveling. He let his mind float down on the waves of it. 

What a strange day, Qui-Gon thought, and a strange way to meet a new Councilor. How they fit together like old friends, with Kenobi’s inexhaustible banter… 

* * *

Qui-Gon slept like a stone, and woke to an empty feeling at his back. Kenobi had left a note: the proprietor, Mrs. Deemo, was serving firstmeal downstairs starting 0700. Kenobi would meet him there after “making a couple of house calls”—Council business, then. Qui-Gon smiled crookedly at the note, and checked the time. Only 0636—not bad. 

Master Kenobi did join Qui-Gon at firstmeal half an hour later—looking a bit flustered. 

“Everything all right?” Qui-Gon asked him. 

“Hm? Oh,” Kenobi waved a hand in a sort of don’t-mind-me gesture. “I told Mrs. Deemo about the couch.” 

“Ah. She didn’t take it well, I’m guessing?” 

The  _ Flamingo _ was, after all, a heritage site—a fact Qui-Gon had missed, the night before. Although, the decor might’ve been a hint. 

Kenobi blushed even more furiously. “N-no, she, um—she said she hoped we enjoyed ourselves.”

It took Qui-Gon a moment to parse that. When he got it, he nearly choked on his tea. (Though, in his defence, he wasn’t even halfway through his first cup of the morning.) 

“Yes, quite,” Kenobi agreed, picking up his fork. “What looks good?”

Qui-Gon waved vaguely at the entire table, mostly to indicate that everything was perfectly edible and even delicious. He’d picked up some three plates of whatever looked good at the buffet. If Master Kenobi was inclined to be more adventurous, he could brave the crowds afterwards. 

Besides, Qui-Gon had a nagging suspicion that the man had a finicky appetite. He wanted to get a proper firstmeal into him, first. 

“I think we met the caterer yesterday,” Qui-Gon said, when he could finally speak again. 

Kenobi glanced up, surprised. “Roz? Well then, that’s perfect,” he said approvingly, and tucked in without any noticeable hesitation. 

“Do you have any other errands or tasks to see to today?” Qui-Gon asked, watching with quiet delight. 

The Councilor shrugged, working through a cut of cold-smoked fish. “Nothing pressing. You?” 

Qui-Gon raised his mug. “Just putting my kit back together. I—have a question for you.” 

“Just the one?” Kenobi shot him a quick grin. 

“For the moment,” Qui-Gon said, completely undeterred. “Did you pack anything other than the uniform?” 

Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “What, civilian clothes? Are you suggesting we do this next mission undercover as well?” He leaned forward, wicked mischief in his eye, “Or are you worried about what being seen with a Jedi will do to your honest reputation around town?”

Qui-Gon laughed, bright and pleasantly startled by the teasing. “Not sure how honest, but—worried? Certainly. Kai-Jin Ardell fleeced the wrong high-roller a couple nights ago.” 

“Oh dear,” echoed the Councilor, that smirk still very much in evidence. “A Jedi, gambling? I pity the losing party.” 

“He won’t miss it,” Qui-Gon assured him— _ or, at least, not for much longer. _ “But he is a touch upset about what happened to it. Hence the drunk tank: I thought starting a brawl in the cantina was better than getting stabbed in the alley behind it.” 

Kenobi snorted. “Please tell me you didn’t start a turf war in Tyrena City.”

“Not exactly. But hopefully I finished one.” 

“Oh! Well then,” Kenobi uttered, “I look forward to reading your report.”

Qui-Gon nearly winced. 

It wasn’t that he despised writing reports (although he rather did). More to the point, his actions hadn’t been (strictly speaking) all legal, and he was almost certain that the Council would not approve. Even if everyone would be happy to see the Red Fang disbanded, even if they preferred to see it done by the head of Red Fang himself… 

Sitting down to a game of sabacc with his second-in-command, high roller, con artist, and career criminal Voskar Brada, was probably stretching the definition of “a good idea”. 

If the Councilor noticed Qui-Gon’s internal struggle, he gave no sign of it. 

“But, to the earlier point: I suppose it might not be a bad idea to approach Edvary Run with a modicum of caution. Frankly, I’m not entirely sure what to expect from them,” Kenobi admitted. “And gaberwool is not in season, to say the least.” 

Qui-Gon remembered with a start that the only seasons that populated worlds of Edvary Run had to boast of were ‘wet and sticky’ or ‘wet and shivering’. Or somehow, inconveniently, both. 

“So I suppose we’d both better get ourselves properly outfitted,” he said. “Greg gave me a list of places that might carry some things of interest—”

“I’m sorry,” Kenobi interrupted,  _ “Greg?” _

“The concierge,” Qui-Gon clarified, smiling slightly. “Or perhaps I should say, the night manager.”

“Right,” said Kenobi, “of course,  _ that _ Greg.” 

Qui-Gon had a hunch Kenobi wasn’t particularly convinced. “It could be an alias,” he allowed. “He’s frighteningly well-informed.”

Kenobi snorted. “Perhaps.”

“The list includes places for clothes and decent tailoring, edged weapons, preserved and packaged foods. Oh—and places that might conceivably carry parts for a lightsaber maintenance kit, if you’re interested. I asked about miniature circuit tools,” Qui-Gon clarified. 

“Resourceful,” Kenobi said approvingly. “Good call on the food.”

“We have about five hours…” Qui-Gon hesitated momentarily. “We could… split the list, get everything done and packed within the next two or three hours. We’d still have time for lunch, even.” 

“A good thought,” said Kenobi, already nodding. “Pass the bacon, please?” 

* * *

Splitting the list was simple enough, both by location and personal needs. They agreed to meet at a diner a bit closer to the hotel than Roz’s café for a quick midmeal. For the most part, Greg had pointed out places that would be able to deliver their purchases quickly, so there wasn’t much they would need to carry. Mrs. Deemo herself promised to have the parcels sent up to their suite. 

Of course, that was only after Qui-Gon had charmed her into it,  _ and _ fixed one of the air re-circulators with a bit of fiddling and judicious application of force. One of the parts needed replacing, and Greg had been on hand with a spare. Qui-Gon, apparently, thus expunged the loss of the couch, which led him to wonder what the furnishings in this ‘heritage’ site were actually worth. 

“Eh,” Greg shrugged, “some big star stayed over in this place every time he came to perform in Tyrena. It was practically his adopted city, and he had a soft spot for this old house.” 

When Qui-Gon left the hotel, he was about half an hour behind Master Kenobi. He’d narrowly avoided having to fix Mrs. Deemo’s speeder—probably because she wasn’t in any real hurry to get it done. Apparently her license was temporarily suspended in Tyrena City (“something about reckless driving,” Mrs. Deemo had said with a careless shrug). 

Granted, there wasn’t a whole lot of room to be reckless, Qui-Gon thought as he made his way through the narrow streets of Tyrena’s historic quarter. It wasn’t as crowded as Blue Sector, where you were lucky to get a meter at a time without someone stepping on your heels or toes. The place was best suited to swoop bikes, and not very fast ones at that. One would have to know how to navigate this labyrinth in their sleep to get out into streets where they could really let the throttle go. 

Arguably, once you’d seen one old city, you’d seen them all (at least, if you were Yan Dooku), but Tyrena’s historic quarter had its own special charm. Three-hundred-year-old structures shambled alongside fifty-year-old attractions, effectively splitting a block in half. Garish neon colours proclaimed historical significance; quieter plaques briefly told of notable guests or residents. Some of the accounts were pure apocrypha, of course, but that didn’t detract from their charm. 

Tiny alleys veered off into quiet little plazas with museums and tiny shopping centres squirrelled away in their depths. Qui-Gon, rather unexpectedly, found himself wishing he had Master Kenobi for company, to share this marvellous place with him. 

He managed to get the shopping squared away quickly, and stopped for a drink at a café. By then he was already near the Kingstown quarter, only a handful of blocks away from the  _ Flamingo _ and the  _ Golden Bantha, _ but he wasn’t supposed to meet Kenobi for another half hour or so. Qui-Gon had decided that, in this brisk weather, a cup of caff wouldn’t go amiss. 

No sooner than he’d settled at the bar, though, cup of caff in hand, that Qui-Gon felt an unpleasant itch between his shoulder blades—either a warning that he was being watched or a warning to avoid being noticed. A few streets over he’d picked up a hat on a whim, and the brim hid his face well enough. Surreptitiously, he stole a crooked glance back over his shoulder. 

The door opened with its quiet electronic chime. Qui-Gon carefully turned his head forward. 

There was enough spattering of red on their armour that Qui-Gon already had serious incentive to make himself scarce, but that wasn’t the only problem. One of those newcomers had a nasty-looking scar on the right side of his face—one that was very familiar. Qui-Gon squinted at the mirrored wall and the high-polished row of caff machines behind the bar, watching the group’s progress, hoping to catch a better angle of the scarred man. 

There was no mistaking him, really; any attempt Qui-Gon made to convince himself otherwise would lead him straight into trouble. Torbin Vayne had a heavy frame, a loud voice, and a horrible temper. He kicked like an enraged bantha and punched like a wall. The scarring on the side of his face had very nearly cost him his eye, so to a certain extent Vayne’s bad temper was even justified. 

Six years ago, Senior Padawan Jinn had not been held personally responsible for that scarring—rather, his Master had. Padawan Jinn had found himself an unlikely ally in the Corellian slums, a tenuous partnership held together by the age-old covenant of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend, until such time as my enemy sees fit to renegotiate the terms of our deal in my favour”. A purely Corellian adage, of course. 

Vayne had been a good ally and an education; for his part, Master Dooku had never seen much worth in an education by pirates. But then, perhaps that was the reason Qui-Gon was always bailing his old Master out of Madam Ohnaka’s hold. Qui-Gon, at least, tried to remain on polite terms with pirates, but with Vayne, any chance of that had been summarily ruined. 

Unfortunately, Qui-Gon’s study did not go unnoticed—though thankfully not by the man himself. 

“Trouble?” asked the slight Zabrak behind the counter, pitched so that only Qui-Gon could hear. The ambient noise of the café had deadened somewhat, though it didn’t fade away to complete silence. “I really don’t want to break up another fight this week.” 

“I don’t want any trouble,” he mumbled into his drink. He  _ certainly _ didn’t want to run the risk of being recognised as a Jedi. 

“There’s a back door by the ‘freshers. Don’t rush, just finish up and go, okay?” 

Qui-Gon gave them the barest tip of his head. “Thanks,” he said. Only later did it occur to him to wonder what they’d meant by “another” fight. 

Much to Qui-Gon’s relief, the newcomers were seated out of the way in a booth, where they wouldn’t immediately spot him. They made enough cheerful noise that, eventually, the other patrons of the café began to relax and turned back to their conversations. 

Qui-Gon finished his caff and slipped a generous tip under the saucer, then rose and headed for the ‘freshers, mentally swearing to all Sith hells as he got a better look at the markings on their armour. 

They were definitely Red Fang—the group he’d made far too close an acquaintance with in the last week. They might not have been after him. They might just be claiming new turf—in the historic quarter, of all places. That was generally considered off-limits by most (sensible) gangs. 

This lot weren’t all that sensible. The Corellian Temple took care of the local groups. Qui-Gon had been assigned specifically to track down certain  _ imports _ . More to the point, these  _ imports _ were the sort most Corellians didn’t want to trade in, or work with. 

So their boss had fixed that problem—by hiring offworlders. Offworlders, with a handful of Corellians to run them and keep them in line. Maybe someone had grown some initiative, or a bit of ambition, and decided to branch out. 

Still, Qui-Gon thought it wouldn’t hurt to put as much distance between himself and  _ them _ as possible. The moment he went out the back way, he ducked around a corner into an even smaller alley, and went up—up the fire-escape to the roof of one of the older buildings, and diagonally across until he found another set of stairs, this one leading down to a narrow, ill-paved passage with a steep incline. 

He took a couple more twists and turns, trusting his inner compass and the Force to bring him back to familiar territory. 

Finally the old city had had enough of him and dumped him out in the middle of a fairly broad, modern avenue. He felt a little out of place, at first, staring at more passersby than he’d seen in the last hour. Then, like a bolt from the blue, he was caught up in a rush of familiarity, and turned around seeking the source of it. 

Qui-Gon almost didn’t recognise him at first. It was the copper hair that snagged his eye, of course, unsurprisingly; but it was the emerald-green of the tunic, the dark leather jacket over that, that did him in. 

Qui-Gon swore under his breath and stopped at the corner, watching the other Jedi make his way towards the  _ Golden Bantha _ diner. 

_ He’s a _ Councilor,  _ you idiot, _ he told himself firmly. But if Qui-Gon lingered on the other side of the street for a moment longer, quietly observing and enjoying the view, no one had to know. 

Qui-Gon ducked into the  _ Golden Bantha _ a few minutes later, to the sound of some sweet rolling music playing through the speakers. Master Kenobi had found himself a booth with good sightlines for the whole of the diner, in the back and out of the way of most of the patrons. 

“Are you picking up or dining in?” a young voice spoke up from somewhere over his ear. 

Qui-Gon glanced up at the waiter—an Umbaran, good grief. Small wonder xe was so bloody tall. “Actually, I’m joining someone. So: dining in.” 

“I see, sir. Is your party here?” 

“Yes, he is, thanks.” 

“Wonderful,” the waiter said, and tipped xir head. “Enjoy your date, sir,” xe said, and left him standing in the middle of the floor like a fool. 

_ Well, nothing for it, I suppose, _ thought Qui-Gon.  _ May as well call it a date. _

Master Kenobi may have covered all the sightlines from the booth to the exits, but he was sitting with his eyes closed, almost as though he was meditating over his caff. Qui-Gon made his approach quietly. He didn’t put much effort into stealth, but when the Master didn’t look up until Qui-Gon was at the booth, he felt ridiculously pleased. 

“Hello, stranger,” Qui-Gon said. 

“Hello there,” Kenobi said, a smile spreading instantly across his face. He glanced up from his cup of caff and raised both eyebrows, surprised. “Nice hat.”

“Thanks,” Qui-Gon grinned. “You know,” he mused, sliding into the booth across from the Jedi Master, “I’m not sure I ever caught your name.”

Kenobi laughed outright at that. “It’s  _ Obi-Wan, _ you nerf,” he retorted. “I trust you have some idea of what’s on the menu, since you’re the one who suggested this place.” 

“No spicy noodles, I’m afraid—” 

“A pity.” 

“—but excellent fish,” Qui-Gon offered. The Master made a noncommittal noise at that, which, Qui-Gon decided, was not a  _ no. _ “Any allergies I should know about?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, gaze distant and unfocused. “This tune was already considered a classic when I was an  _ Initiate. _ ”

“Tyrena: the cure for nostalgia, no matter the decade,” Qui-Gon quipped. 

Kenobi snorted. “I’d like to argue with you, but I can’t: one of the shops tried to sell me an outfit that should have died in a closet thirty years ago, padded shoulders and everything.” 

“It’s the tunics,” Qui-Gon said. “They see a Jedi and assume we know nothing about style.”

Obi-Wan mulled over that for a moment, then nodded. “You might be onto something there. They probably think we’re all colourblind, too.” 

Qui-Gon glanced up. “Good grief, what did they try to sell you?” 

“A lot of loud triangles,” Obi-Wan said. “Either they look more appealing in a different light spectrum, or they’re a thoroughly convincing display of aposematism.” 

“Mm.” Qui-Gon leaned back, studying the man before him. “A fundamental misunderstanding of the Jedi,” he said, “to suggest that you are the prey rather than the predator.”

“ _ I’m _ the predator?” Kenobi grinned back at him, all teeth. “What a notion. Are you suggesting I’m not venomous?” 

Qui-Gon pretended to ponder that. “Well, not beyond a lethal concentration of capsaicin. And caffeine, possibly,” he added, nodding towards the Master’s steaming cup. 

Kenobi pulled a face. “Tyrena is sadly lacking in decent tea.” 

“And the noodles?” 

Obi-Wan’s smile turned wry. “Capsaicin does wonders for a lacking appetite.” 

So Qui-Gon hadn’t missed his guess, earlier—the man rarely had the chance to sit down to a solid meal. Hells, Qui-Gon thought, he was the youngest Master ever to earn a Council seat—a highly skilled, extremely accomplished Master at the age of thirty-two. It was a wonder Kenobi hadn’t turned into a tightly wound knot of caffeinated anxiety. 

Then again, perhaps he had. Qui-Gon realised, in that moment, that Obi-Wan was more relaxed than Qui-Gon had seen him yet. He marveled at that a little, not brazen enough to claim responsibility for such a change in Master Kenobi, and yet deeply pleased to see it. 

The server who came up to take their order was not the Umbaran—rather, it was a young Human woman whose name tag read “Liese”. Qui-Gon had glanced over at Obi-Wan, who simply gestured back at him with a sly, maybe even challenging smile.  _ Surprise me. _

So Qui-Gon ordered for them both, hesitating for a brief moment before leaving the choice of drinks up to Liese’s recommendation. There was something deeply satisfying in this: seeing the man across from him relax, melt into the cushioned seat, smiling brightly and with newfound ease. Qui-Gon felt it like an itch in his fingers—the need to treat him to a dish he might enjoy, to find out what tea he liked. Dooku would have shaken his head, muttered something about Qui-Gon and his  _ pathetic lifeforms _ —though, surely, a Jedi Master could hardly be classed as such. 

When the food finally arrived, Master Kenobi straightened up with anticipation nearly equal to Qui-Gon’s own—curious to see what he’d chosen, no doubt. Qui-Gon, though, wanted to see what he would think of it. 

At the first bite, Obi-Wan’s eyes went wide and a flush appeared high on his cheeks. “Oh, you—” he coughed and flapped a hand in front of him, surprised, “you really took the spicy bit seriously.” 

Qui-Gon sat forward in concern, but Obi-Wan was already waving him back down. 

“It’s wonderful,” he said. His eyes were brimming with tears, yet he was grinning happily. 

“Spiced fish,” Qui-Gon confirmed, quietly delighted by the man’s obvious pleasure. “Thought you might enjoy it.” 

“Mind-reader,” Kenobi sniffed, and bent an accusing mock-glare his way. “You do know that iced water only makes the burn worse, yes? Well, better.”

Qui-Gon chuckled, and took an experimental bite of his own meal—vegetables sautéed in a sauce that had rated only one red pepper on the menu (as opposed to Master Kenobi’s four). 

“Dramatics aside,” Kenobi paused to sniff discreetly behind a napkin, “proper application of spicy peppers saved my Master’s cooking more than once.” 

Qui-Gon’s face twisted involuntarily. “Grand Master of the Order he may be, but chef extraordinaire he is  _ not. _ ” 

“Ah! I see you’ve experienced Master Yoda’s ideas of cuisine.” Kenobi’s eyes sparkled. “What was your first mistake?” 

“Cookies,” Qui-Gon said, mournful. “He was just trying to cheer up a sulking Padawan.” 

“Doing his best, yes,” Kenobi agreed, laughing. 

“I took a batch home,” Qui-Gon remembered. “Master Dooku took one look at them and shuddered.” 

Kenobi nodded around another spicy mouthful. “Fond memories for all of Master Yoda’s Padawans, I imagine. I learned to cook early, in self defence.” 

“Master Yoda always had the best tea,” Qui-Gon noted. 

“Yes, and now I’m absolutely spoiled,” the Master deadpanned, glaring pointedly at the now-empty cup beside him. 

They talked about—well, inconsequential things. Nothing terribly important or pressing, like the mission. Qui-Gon happily let go of his earlier worry about Vayne and Red Fang, and watched as Master Kenobi spoke, animated, with his eyes and voice and with his hands. Corellian trade to Corellian ships, smuggling and the beautiful natural reserves. They somehow got to the topic of museums, and only then began to notice that the interior of the  _ Golden Bantha _ was also a painstakingly well-preserved performance piece from decades past. The walls were nearly covered with flatpics, some of them with signatures and even dedications. 

“Same time period as the  _ Flamingo, _ ” Qui-Gon guessed. Though far better maintained. 

“Very probably.” Kenobi’s eyes lingered on a photograph across from him—a young man with thick dark hair and a cocky grin, a bold, curling signature and a saccharine dedication. 

Qui-Gon realised he’d been watching Kenobi maybe a little too long, so he reached for his beer to cover his mistake. Unfortunately, the beer itself wasn’t really worth the subterfuge. 

Qui-Gon opened his mouth to say something, ask something—anything to get his mind out of dangerous territory—but was cut off by the sound of some terribly off-key and  _ very _ slurred singing. Someone was trying to sing along to the music—just a couple booths down, actually. Drunk as they were, they were not only off-key, they were very off-beat—half a measure off, and until they hit their stride they might well have been singing in canon. 

Another voice joined in, no better off. It was one of those particularly drunken duets that made up in enthusiasm for all other faults. Qui-Gon found himself laughing, observing the guilty couple, then laughing at everyone who joined in—from all around the diner, including the waitstaff. Kenobi was watching them with fascinated, sparkling eyes. 

The whole chorus sounded much better. The entire diner practically lit up with it, joyful, capturing and commanding full attention. 

Qui-Gon, distracted, sat running his fingers around the rim of his glass. He wasn’t watching the others in the diner; his eyes were fixed on— _ riveted _ to the brilliant man across from him. 

Kenobi glimmered in the Force; his presence had the feel of a wild and untamed felid—powerful, yet lounging in a sunspot, at ease. Qui-Gon sat there, hopelessly pinned, willingly captive to it in all its glory; wondering what it would be like, to be the target of Master Kenobi’s focus. Would it feel like being watched, tracked by a predator? Just thinking about it sent a shiver down his spine. 

Kenobi pushed aside his plate, looking unfairly satisfied, like some sharp-toothed feline. Qui-Gon hastily hid his blush as well as he could behind his pint. 

“All done?” Liese appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “Anything for dessert?”

Qui-Gon wasn’t sure he could take any, but he looked over at the Master. 

Kenobi shrugged. “We should pack,” he said, a touch regretful. 

Qui-Gon nodded and handed his credit chit to Liese with a polite “no, thank you.” 

Liese and her palm-set conferred for a second, then the palm-set spat out a slip of flimsi. “Couples get a discount,” the girl said, smiling wide, and bustled off to her next table. 

Hiding behind an empty pint was entirely pointless. Qui-Gon glanced at the check, feeling his face heat, then up at Kenobi. The Master was watching him with a curious, half-amused look. “Exactly how much is this couples’ discount, anyway?” 

“Well,” Qui-Gon cleared his throat, “about half off. I suppose it’ll take me a bit longer to pay off my bail.” 

“Such a shame,” Kenobi drawled, in a tone that didn’t seem the least bit disappointed. 

* * *

There was no trace of the ill-fated couch in the main room—a fact which Master Kenobi noted with some amusement. Mrs. Deemo had kept her word, though: their packages had been delivered to the suite. They were even neatly separated, on two opposite sides of the bed. All they had left to do was to go through the parcels and fit them in a single, compact bag each. 

Kenobi finished first, which didn’t really surprise Qui-Gon. The Master’s pack had been mostly intact—not like his own, lost in that footbridge firefight. 

“You went shopping for a new blaster?” Kenobi nodded at the weapon in question, resting half-unwrapped near Qui-Gon’s open pack on the bed. 

Qui-Gon nodded, working a neat bundle of tunics into his new, sturdy bag. “I think you should have it.”

Kenobi eyed him warily. “Why,” he said, voice flat. 

“We’re heading into what is still, technically, a warzone, and all you’ve got to defend yourself with is a lightsaber. Were you just going to announce to everyone that you are a Jedi and put a target on your back?” 

_ At least you’re dressed like a civilian now, _ Qui-Gon thought,  _ you’ve still got the bearing of some aristocratic family. _ Even in a spacer’s garb, Master Kenobi might well stand out in a crowd. 

The Master raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure enough people there know my face, Knight Jinn.” 

“Well, there’s no sense  _ asking _ for trouble, is there,” Qui-Gon said reasonably. 

Kenobi still looked dubious, so Qui-Gon figured he should try a different tack. 

“Look, I got shot off a footbridge over the river because they were expecting a Jedi to come asking questions, and they saw me. There’s a reason most Corellian Jedi don’t wear the uniform.” 

“I’m not going to argue with you on that point,” Master Kenobi said, “the clothes are practical. It’s the blaster I don’t quite like. It’s—uncivilised.” 

Qui-Gon tried not to smile. “Uncivilised?” 

The word reminded him so much of Dooku that he could hardly keep a straight face—not when Kenobi and Dooku were so unalike. 

“Messy, inaccurate, and given to carnage,” Kenobi clarified. 

“You prefer disarming people cleanly, then,” said Qui-Gon, and noticed a strange expression flit over the Master’s face. 

It was gone in a moment. 

“You can injure or kill someone at a distance and separate yourself from the action,” the Master said, “but a lightsaber forces you to confront the action head-on. You are not a passive or removed participant. If you kill, it is because you chose to do so, and generally because you must. With a blaster, there’s a solid chance you’ll miss—cause greater harm than you intended, or kill a person outright when they might have needed a second chance.” 

Qui-Gon nodded, and picked up the blaster from where it lay beside Kenobi’s open pack. 

“You are not an indiscriminate shooter, Master Kenobi,” he said, turning to the Councilor. “You are a trained Force-user, and you are a member of the Council, which would imply some degree of wisdom and sense.” 

Kenobi eyed him, surprised. “You clearly don’t know too many of us Council members, then,” he quipped. Then his smile took on a sly edge. “Or perhaps you are simply taking the opportunity to flatter one of us and gain yourself an ally in the Chamber for your next annual evaluation.”

Qui-Gon smiled. “I rather think you are a man of your own mind, who would not be swayed by such petty machinations.” 

“What, no word on the wisdom of the collective Council? You’re a dangerous man, Knight Jinn.”

Qui-Gon didn’t quite know what to do, in the face of that gentle teasing. Instead, he ducked down as a thought occurred to him, and slipped the blade out of the sheath in his boot. “Is this more civilised, then?” 

Kenobi was now definitely impressed. “Well, no.” 

Qui-Gon laughed and held it out to the Master hilt-forward. “Take it. I understand you are a Master of the Third Degree, and fully able to defend yourself in any situation, but it wouldn’t do to get caught unawares.” 

“What about you?” 

He shrugged. “I may be only a Knight, but I am also quite capable of defending myself,” he said, feeling a decidedly roguish grin creep over his face. “And whoever said I had just the one boot knife, anyway?” 

Kenobi took the knife, finally, with an amused sound. “Very nice,” he murmured, hefting the blade appreciatively in his palm, testing its balance. 

Qui-Gon tore his gaze away from the elegant motion of that hand, and turned back to his pack quickly. 

“Thank you,” said Obi-Wan from behind him, and Qui-Gon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

They had everything squared away within fifteen minutes, really, but lingered for another few to make sure they’d left nothing behind. Kenobi perched on the arm of one of the chairs in the sitting room and ran through the entire travel itinerary twice to make sure Qui-Gon knew all of it, and could repeat it back to him: what ship they were on (the freighter  _ Alakna _ ), where they were going (Davra City, site of the peace talks), and precisely how they were going to disembark (subtly). 

Once satisfied with his knowledge of the plan, Master Kenobi grinned a little ferally and passed him a shiny new datapad. “Your mission background, Knight Jinn. Read at your leisure, it’s a long flight. Now—we’d better get going.” 

Qui-Gon took the pad, bemused, and slipped it into his bag just atop his tunics. He felt a bit like he was being towed along by a force beyond his comprehension, as Master Kenobi handled everything from exit to checkout to ordering an aircar, briskly and efficiently. 

Mrs. Deemo, of course, didn’t let them pass without subjecting them both to a bone-creaking hug and pressing a box of somewhat squashed crumb-cake into their hands. 

Qui-Gon was just getting his bearings, back out in the main streets of Tyrena and passing Roz’s café, when the Force trilled a warning up his spine. 

_ Shit. _

Qui-Gon hooked his arm around Master Kenobi’s and dragged him around the corner, off the main avenue. He made sure there wasn’t a window or any other reflective surface across from him, then peered very carefully around the edge. 

Obi-Wan leaned with him. 

A pair of rough-looking pirates were striding down the avenue with a loose gait that was unjustifiably self-assured. Their armour paint marked them as members of Red Fang—of  _ course _ —and one of them had been with Torbin Vayne in the cafe a few hours ago—because  _ why _ would Qui-Gon Jinn ever be lucky enough to escape trouble when he needed it least? 

“Friends of yours?” Kenobi asked, a wry twist to his lips. 

“In a manner of speaking.” Qui-Gon snuck a glance around the corner. “Did I tell you I got shot off a bridge?” 

“You might have mentioned it.” The Master sounded amused. 

“Undercover activity was  _ not _ originally in my mission parameters,” Qui-Gon said. “I got very friendly with them after the fact. Only half of this party ended up in the drunk tank with me the other day.” 

“I see. In that case, might I suggest avoiding them?” 

“I would gladly take you up on that suggestion, Master Kenobi. However,” Qui-Gon noted a pair of sentients in a similar hodgepodge of armour approaching from the other end of the alley and nodded toward them, “I think they might be a little too numerous to avoid.” 

“Don’t tell me,” Kenobi grumbled, “you managed to piss off a lot of people on your brief Corellian vacation, Kai-Jin Ardell.” 

Qui-Gon blinked at him. “You know, I feel like a crècheling all over again. No one’s ever called me by my full alias. Come on—” 

Qui-Gon hooked his arm around the Master’s and tugged him through the nearest open door. 

The casino district was full of interesting nooks and crannies, dive bars and clubs and goodness knows what else. The building they ended up in, however, was impressive—vaulted ceilings, marble walls and pillars and a large, grand staircase, double doors of ornately carved synth-wood. The far wall was mirrored, to give the appearance of an even larger space. 

Qui-Gon stared down the length of the hall, trying not to look at their reflection—between the two of them, he and the Master looked almost comically lost. Instead he focused on the echoing silence of the place, sound practically eaten up by the soft, wide runner of carpet that stretched from their feet to the staircase. An attendant smiled at him; not knowing what else to do, Qui-Gon smiled back, out of politeness. 

Then he caught a glimpse of the sign outside the nearest pair of double doors. 

“Wh—Qui-Gon?” Kenobi frowned. “This is… a wedding pavilion? What are we doing here?”

“Well,” Qui-Gon whispered, “we can be late for our transport, or we can avoid them. I thought this place might have a back door.” 

“Oh.” Kenobi nodded approvingly. “Well thought. But why are we whispering?” 

“Seemed… appropriate?” Qui-Gon offered. 

“Can I help you, gentlebeings?” 

“Er—” 

Qui-Gon had, of course, meant to ask the attendant where the back door was. Instead, he faltered completely. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Master Kenobi’s face had gone flat, like a battle-ready mask. Half a second later Qui-Gon understood why: the reflection in the far wall showed that same pair of loitering sentients. They hadn’t noticed their quarry yet, it seemed, but any minute now—

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the attendant, apparently not having noticed their sudden tension—or perhaps writing it off as general anxiety. 

“No,” Qui-Gon said shortly—then instantly softened. He was beginning to see a way out of this, but Force help him, it was probably a very bad idea. “I don’t suppose you do walk-ins?” 

“Well, sure we do, shortcake!” the attendant—Flora, according to her nametag—exclaimed. “Come right this way, please.” 

At Qui-Gon's side, Master Kenobi was terribly silent. In the Force there wasn’t the slightest whisper of leaked emotion. Qui-Gon couldn’t even hazard a guess at what the man felt, and it was beginning to make him a bit nervous. 

Smiling brightly, the small lady led them over to a desk a ways down the hall. It was also conveniently out of the immediate sightline of the entryway. She picked up a datapad and thumbed it on. 

“I’ll just see who’s available,” Flora told them, a big reassuring smile and a touch of conspiratorial glee on her face. She ran a finger down the screen—probably a schedule column. 

Qui-Gon risked a glance at the Councilor, but the blank mask had given way to a pleasant sort of smile. No help there. 

“Ah!” Flora looked up. “The King is free, if you’d like to go in now.” 

“Excellent, thank you,” Qui-Gon said quickly. It didn’t even occur to him to wonder who this ‘King’ was. 

Kenobi said nothing, and Qui-Gon didn’t dare look at him. 

“Great!” Flora exclaimed, “if you’ll just follow me, please, we’ll get you in right away! You must be on your way off Corellia, yes?” Flora waved a hand at their bags. 

Qui-Gon nodded. “We were, actually, yes—our transport’s in an hour.” 

“Oh!” Flora smiled, pressed a hand over her breast. “And you stopped to get married on your way out! How romantic,” she cooed, apparently completely charmed. 

Qui-Gon grinned, and wound an arm around Master Kenobi’s shoulders, gently tugging him close.  _ He’s going to  _ kill _ me, _ he thought, and said, “I realised I couldn’t live without him, and when he said yes—gods, but I couldn’t wait for us to get home.” 

Flora almost melted, but then her demeanour went sharp with a nearly audible snap. “When did you say your transport was?” 

“In an hour,” Kenobi put in helpfully. 

Qui-Gon couldn’t get anything from his voice. Dead, dead, he was so very dead. 

“Oh,  _ my! _ ” Flora exclaimed, “you  _ are _ cutting it rather close, aren’t you. Well, we’ll just have to do our very best,” she assured them, with the very look of a person rising to a challenge, and briskly chivvied them down the hall past two more doorways. 

Suddenly she stopped short, like she’d run into a forcefield. “Do you have rings?” 

“Er, no,” Qui-Gon said. 

“We were in a bit of a hurry,” Master Kenobi supplied dryly. 

“But, honestly,” Qui-Gon picked up immediately, “we don’t want to make a big production out of the whole thing—”

“Oh, but you can’t go to the King without rings!” Flora insisted gently. “I understand, you’re on a bit of a tight schedule—but a King’s Wedding is one of our oldest traditions on Corellia, I mean  _ very _ traditional. And, well. You simply must have rings.” 

Qui-Gon exchanged a quick glance with Councilor Kenobi, who vaguely tipped his head towards the mirrors at the end of the hall again. Their pursuers now had friends. Qui-Gon spared a moment to be grateful that they seemed to have spiced a good bit of sense out of their skulls. Otherwise, it was a Force-blessed miracle that he and Kenobi hadn’t been spotted yet. 

“It’ll only be a moment,” Flora soothed, and continued all the way down the hall to the main stairs. 

Just behind the counter there was a display case full of all kinds of rings—most of them quite affordable, too, Qui-Gon noted. Some were impressively large and— _ busy _ was the most polite term he could apply. There was even a variety of metals to choose from, of different colours and tones. 

But Qui-Gon found his eye drawn to the simpler bands; and though he tried to tell himself that this was an act, that there was no point putting as much thought into it as one might for a true wedding, he couldn’t help thinking,  _ which of these would suit Kenobi best? What would he like? _

His eyes caught on a flash of copper. A simple, copper-coloured band, the colour of Master Kenobi’s hair. 

“That one,” Qui-Gon said, mouth gone dry. “May we see it?” 

Flora smiled, switched off the forcefield and brought out the tray. 

Qui-Gon glanced over at the Jedi Master. “What do you think?”

Kenobi looked at the ring, then back at Qui-Gon Jinn, who stood with his heart in his throat and wondered  _ how _ this could possibly be so nerve-wracking. 

And Kenobi  _ smiled. _ “It’s lovely. And a metal I’m not allergic to, at that. You remembered,” he said softly. Then he pitched forward and pressed a light kiss to Qui-Gon’s cheek. “It’s perfect, love.” 

Qui-Gon felt himself blush. Trust Kenobi to take up any role and play it to the hilt. 

Flora cooed. “Matching rings?” 

Qui-Gon had forgotten she was there. He cleared his throat, startled. “Yes, please.”

“Good, then! That’ll be forty credits each.”

Qui-Gon handed over his credit chit without question. In seconds, Flora had taken the measure of their fingers, and he was handed back his chit and a small velvet-covered box. Flora bustled around the counter, herding them back to whichever chamber they were about to be married in.  _ Force help us, _ he thought, as Master Kenobi’s hand slipped into the crook of his elbow, and couldn’t think of much beyond that. 

Caught up in her sudden flurry of activity, Qui-Gon barely registered their surroundings as she nudged them into the room. It should have been large and airy, for the size of it, but instead felt close and a little too dim. The whole place was done up in garish pink marble, and the carpeting was a dark maroon. The light fixtures were done in yellow metal, which Qui-Gon thought was a bit of overkill. Well, apart from the walls and the carpet. 

Flora skirted past them and went right up to the officiant—a tall man, dressed in a strange suit with flared sleeves and pant-legs, and even a cape—and a belt. All of it  _ sparkled; _ Qui-Gon readjusted his definition of overkill. Flora whispered a few words to him, and the King rocked back with a huge grin. 

“Thank ya, darlin’,” he drawled. “Welcome, gentlebein’s,” the King added, turning to them. “Now, I don’t mind tellin’ ya, normally we get a bit more plannin’ in, before somebody walks the aisle.”

Qui-Gon wondered a little at that casual twang in the King’s speech, dragging along like sweet pungent smoke over the ground. With the bedazzled look of him, the sweeping lines of the costume and the dark thick hair, Qui-Gon was very much inclined to think the man was overselling the bit, whatever  _ bit _ it was that he was playing. 

“It was a—a spur of the moment decision,” Qui-Gon said brightly, “though it’s been a long time coming.” 

The King grinned wide. “You have vows, or do you prefer traditional?” 

Qui-Gon and Kenobi exchanged glances. It was the Councilor who answered, “Traditional, I think,” and cleared his throat. 

“All  _ right, _ ” the King boomed. “Do you have the rings?”

Qui-Gon raised the small box, barely aware of having decided to do so. He was surprised (perhaps distantly horrified) to discover that his hand was almost completely steady. Sure, he was only about to marry a man he’d known less than one Standard Galactic day, and a  _ Councilor _ at that. 

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. Qui-Gon followed the cues, repeated the traditional vows after the King and couldn’t tear his eyes away from Master Kenobi’s— _ Obi-Wan’s _ —face.  _ In sickness and in health, ‘til death do us part— _

_ —and together again in the Force, _ Qui-Gon’s mind added, unprompted. He blushed furiously, and ducked his head down to slip the ring onto Obi-Wan’s finger. The Master’s fingers twitched against his palm. 

Then Obi-Wan’s voice recited those same vows, and Qui-Gon could have melted where he stood, because somehow he believed every word. More fool him, of course; but he could have listened to that voice forever. 

“You may kiss,” said the King, from somewhere in a thick fog. 

Suddenly Obi-Wan was very close, and Qui-Gon’s heart sped up. His brain kicked into anxious overdrive, as well, but his hands moved of their own accord, up to Obi-Wan’s neck. One strayed to his cheek, to press two fingers lightly to the mole there. Obi-Wan was watching him, eyes bright, the slightest smile on his face as he leaned into Qui-Gon’s touch. 

_ Great Force, _ Qui-Gon thought,  _ I’m in over my head, _ and bent down to kiss the man. 

Obi-Wan met the kiss leaning into Qui-Gon’s greater bulk. His hands rested on Qui-Gon’s chest, and they fit together perfectly, like they were meant for this. It was sweet and gentle, almost innocent. 

“I now pronounce you lawfully wedded partners!” 

Reluctantly, Qui-Gon pulled back. In his arms, Obi-Wan Kenobi was looking up at Qui-Gon as though seeing him clearly for the first time, and Qui-Gon smiled at him, not knowing what else to do. The answering smile on Obi-Wan’s face was one he would remember for the rest of his life. 

“And now, since you boys have a flight to catch,” the King broke in  _ again, _ “Flora will just show you out to your ride.” 

Flora had somehow, somewhen appeared behind them, and Qui-Gon hadn’t noticed. He stared at her a bit blankly. “What?” 

He was at least relieved that Obi-Wan appeared to be in much the same state. 

“On the house,” Flora said brightly. “We flagged down one of our limo-flyers. Rina’s got speeding tickets in every district and a couple friends in air-traffic control, she’ll get you to the spaceport on time, don’t you worry.” 

“Thank you,” Master Kenobi said politely, answering for both of them as he stepped away from Qui-Gon to straighten out his tunics and smooth back his hair. “We really are much obliged to you.” 

“Oh, not at all!” Flora waved him off, but she was clearly pleased with the compliment. “Come on now, can’t keep the lady waiting.” 

She led them back out to the main hall and towards the door by the main staircase. Qui-Gon’s brain was just beginning to catch up with everything—from the wedding ceremony to the fact that he was now married to the man beside him. He followed along in a daze, but he did notice a rather rag-tag bunch at the entrance who had been waylaid by another pavilion attendant. One of that bunch, he noticed, had a rather distinctive,  _ massive _ silhouette, and—

Just then the man turned to watch their departure, and in the mirror Qui-Gon caught a glimpse of a very distinctive scar over one eye. The man hovered, uncertain, took a wavering step—

—and then Qui-Gon couldn’t see him anymore, the angle too acute. He heard the hapless attendant’s wavering “S-sir?” and prayed with all he had that Vayne wouldn’t follow. 

Outside, a large woman stood—lounged, rather, against the side of her speeder. She immediately relieved them of their bags and cheerfully asked, “Where to?” 

“Coronet City spaceport,” Kenobi answered. 

“Right-o, hang on tight!”

Rina did indeed have speeding tickets in every district, of that there could be no doubt; the initial acceleration on takeoff was definitely  _ at least _ a couple times Corellia’s gravity—unexpected—and Rina took it with a happy whoop. 

But it was a boon in one way at least: Qui-Gon stopped worrying about Torbin Vayne immediately. Not only would the best of Red Fang’s speeders fail to keep up, there was no way any of them would even be able to guess where Rina’s limo-flyer was headed. The speeder was well away before any of them could have crossed the length of the hall, even at a run. 

And, of course, if Qui-Gon had left the pavilion wondering what the hells he was going to say to Master Kenobi, to explain himself and this whole farce—and that  _ kiss _ —he needn’t have worried: both Jedi were mostly concerned with keeping down what remained of their lunch. 

Rina let them off at the spaceport—having turned a twenty-five minute flight into twelve, and a pair of Jedi decidedly green. She unloaded their bags from the back, hopped back into her speeder with a cheery wave, and peeled off the platform. Qui-Gon felt his throat tighten reflexively just from watching the maneuver, and beside him Master Kenobi didn’t sound like he was taking it any better. 

For a few minutes, they just stood there, recovering. Then the silence began to congeal between them. Qui-Gon nervously glanced over at Master Kenobi. 

Qui-Gon was still waiting for—something, he couldn’t say what. Criticism? Censure? Kenobi didn’t seem inclined to give him anything. 

At last, he wavered under the weight of that silence, and capitulated. “I am very,  _ very _ sorry,” Qui-Gon said on a sigh. 

Kenobi blinked at him like a startled firebird. “What? Whyever for?” 

“Well, for the—” Qui-Gon gestured. “The wedding. And everything,” he added lamely. 

Kenobi only looked more confused, if that were possible. “Why in the galaxy would—? You got us out of a potentially very sticky situation without a firefight. It was an inspired solution—unexpected, certainly, but effective. I would never have thought of it.” 

Qui-Gon stared at him. 

Kenobi, apparently realising that his words weren’t having quite the intended effect, dipped his head to catch Qui-Gon’s dismayed gaze. “That was very well done, Knight Jinn,” he said emphatically, “and I certainly won’t have you apologising for it.”

Qui-Gon felt his jaw drop. Never, not  _ once, _ had he heard such an outpouring of praise addressed to his own humble person. He was far more accustomed to harsh criticisms and Council-chair judgements of his actions, accusations of revolutionary activity and provocations. This was… so far outside his norm, that—

Qui-Gon snapped his mouth shut, and tried to cover his lingering shock with a deep bow, from a Knight to a respected Master. 

When he glanced up again, Master Kenobi was giving him an odd look, mouth pinched. “Is everything all right?” 

Qui-Gon shrugged, and hid behind the obvious: “Marriage is a sensitive thing for many sentients. I rather roped you into that without warning, all for the sake of improvising an escape route. Practical or not, it’s—well. It’s still a violation.” 

Not that so-called ‘Corellian marriages’ weren’t the easiest in the galaxy to annul. They were a tourist attraction, aimed at those drunk on liquor or a particularly good winning streak. Most Corellian marriages didn’t make it past the hangover, really. Of course, they were as legal as any other civil marriage in the Republic, but all you really had to do was submit a form to call it off. You didn’t even have to do it in person. 

Qui-Gon said none of this. 

Interestingly, neither did Master Kenobi. He simply smiled. “Your concern is gratifying, Knight Jinn. Let me assure you: there has been no offense, nor were any of your actions untoward, nor do I feel that you took unnecessary liberties. Quite the contrary.”

He offered a respectful bow in return, still smiling, then swept past a dumbfounded Qui-Gon Jinn, saying something about seeing to their transport. 

Qui-Gon stared after him, dimly registering that he could no longer think of this man simply as ‘Kenobi’. Something had changed somewhere, some switch had been thrown; now, as he watched the copper-haired Master stride away from him and snag one of the freighter pilots, Qui-Gon found he could only think of him as  _ Obi-Wan. _

And when Obi-Wan glanced back at him mid-conversation and grinned, triumphant, Qui-Gon couldn’t even bring himself to regret it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Story idea courtesy of davaia. Special thanks to northisnotup for the nudge that brought you all Corellia-as-Space-Vegas: “There aren’t enough Vegas marriage fics,” said north, and I had an epiphany. 
> 
> And as always, great thanks to meggory and skyywalkerfen (jessebee) for the beta and encouragement.


End file.
